I. — THE COIN OF DIONYSIUS
II. — THE KNIGHT'S CROSS SIGNAL PROBLEM
III. — THE TRAGEDY AT BROOKBEND COTTAGE
IV. — THE CLEVER MRS. STRAITHWAITE
V. — THE LAST EXPLOIT OF HARRY THE ACTOR
VI. — THE TILLING SHAW MYSTERY
VII. THE COMEDY AT FOUNTAIN COTTAGE
VIII. — THE GAME PLAYED IN THE DARK
I. — THE COIN OF DIONYSIUS
It was eight o'clock at
night and raining, scarcely a time when a business so limited in
its
clientele as that of a coin dealer could hope to attract any
customer, but a light was still showing in the small shop that bore
over its window the name of Baxter, and in the even smaller office
at
the back the proprietor himself sat reading the latest
Pall
Mall. His enterprise seemed to be justified, for presently the
door bell gave its announcement, and throwing down his paper Mr
Baxter went forward.
As a matter of fact the
dealer had been expecting someone and his manner as he passed into
the shop was unmistakably suggestive of a caller of importance. But
at the first glance towards his visitor the excess of deference
melted out of his bearing, leaving the urbane, self-possessed
shopman
in the presence of the casual customer.
"Mr Baxter, I think?"
said the latter. He had laid aside his dripping umbrella and was
unbuttoning overcoat and coat to reach an inner pocket. "You
hardly remember me, I suppose? Mr Carlyle—two years ago I took up a
case for you——"
"To be sure. Mr
Carlyle, the private detective——"
"Inquiry agent,"
corrected Mr Carlyle precisely.
"Well," smiled
Mr Baxter, "for that matter I am a coin dealer and not an
antiquarian or a numismatist. Is there anything in that way that I
can do for you?"
"Yes," replied
his visitor; "it is my turn to consult you." He had taken a
small wash-leather bag from the inner pocket and now turned
something
carefully out upon the counter. "What can you tell me about
that?"
The dealer gave the coin a
moment's scrutiny.
"There is no question
about this," he replied. "It is a Sicilian tetradrachm of
Dionysius."
"Yes, I know that—I
have it on the label out of the cabinet. I can tell you further
that
it's supposed to be one that Lord Seastoke gave two hundred and
fifty
pounds for at the Brice sale in '94."
"It seems to me that
you can tell me more about it than I can tell you," remarked Mr
Baxter. "What is it that you really want to know?"
"I want to know,"
replied Mr Carlyle, "whether it is genuine or not."
"Has any doubt been
cast upon it?"
"Certain
circumstances raised a suspicion—that is all."
The dealer took another
look at the tetradrachm through his magnifying glass, holding it by
the edge with the careful touch of an expert. Then he shook his
head
slowly in a confession of ignorance.
"Of course I could
make a guess——"
"No, don't,"
interrupted Mr Carlyle hastily. "An arrest hangs on it and
nothing short of certainty is any good to me."
"Is that so, Mr
Carlyle?" said Mr Baxter, with increased interest. "Well,
to be quite candid, the thing is out of my line. Now if it was a
rare
Saxon penny or a doubtful noble I'd stake my reputation on my
opinion, but I do very little in the classical series."
Mr Carlyle did not attempt
to conceal his disappointment as he returned the coin to the bag
and
replaced the bag in the inner pocket.
"I had been relying
on you," he grumbled reproachfully. "Where on earth am I to
go now?"
"There is always the
British Museum."
"Ah, to be sure,
thanks. But will anyone who can tell me be there now?"
"Now? No fear!"
replied Mr Baxter. "Go round in the morning——"
"But I must know
to-night," explained the visitor, reduced to despair again.
"To-morrow will be too late for the purpose."
Mr Baxter did not hold out
much encouragement in the circumstances.
"You can scarcely
expect to find anyone at business now," he remarked. "I
should have been gone these two hours myself only I happened to
have
an appointment with an American millionaire who fixed his own
time."
Something indistinguishable from a wink slid off Mr Baxter's right
eye. "Offmunson he's called, and a bright young pedigree-hunter
has traced his descent from Offa, King of Mercia. So he—quite
naturally—wants a set of Offas as a sort of collateral proof."
"Very interesting,"
murmured Mr Carlyle, fidgeting with his watch. "I should love an
hour's chat with you about your millionaire customers—some other
time. Just now—look here, Baxter, can't you give me a line of
introduction to some dealer in this sort of thing who happens to
live
in town? You must know dozens of experts."
"Why, bless my soul,
Mr Carlyle, I don't know a man of them away from his business,"
said Mr Baxter, staring. "They may live in Park Lane or they may
live in Petticoat Lane for all I know. Besides, there aren't so
many
experts as you seem to imagine. And the two best will very likely
quarrel over it. You've had to do with 'expert witnesses,' I
suppose?"
"I don't want a
witness; there will be no need to give evidence. All I want is an
absolutely authoritative pronouncement that I can act on. Is there
no
one who can really say whether the thing is genuine or not?"
Mr Baxter's meaning
silence became cynical in its implication as he continued to look
at
his visitor across the counter. Then he relaxed.
"Stay a bit; there is
a man—an amateur—I remember hearing wonderful things about some
time ago. They say he really does know."
"There you are,"
exclaimed Mr Carlyle, much relieved. "There always is someone.
Who is he?"
"Funny name,"
replied Baxter. "Something Wynn or Wynn something." He
craned his neck to catch sight of an important motor car that was
drawing to the kerb before his window. "Wynn Carrados! You'll
excuse me now, Mr Carlyle, won't you? This looks like Mr
Offmunson."
Mr Carlyle hastily
scribbled the name down on his cuff.
"Wynn Carrados,
right. Where does he live?"
"Haven't the remotest
idea," replied Baxter, referring the arrangement of his tie to
the judgment of the wall mirror. "I have never seen the man
myself. Now, Mr Carlyle, I'm sorry I can't do any more for you. You
won't mind, will you?"
Mr Carlyle could not
pretend to misunderstand. He enjoyed the distinction of holding
open
the door for the transatlantic representative of the line of Offa
as
he went out, and then made his way through the muddy streets back
to
his office. There was only one way of tracing a private individual
at
such short notice—through the pages of the directories, and the
gentleman did not flatter himself by a very high estimate of his
chances.
Fortune favoured him,
however. He very soon discovered a Wynn Carrados living at
Richmond,
and, better still, further search failed to unearth another. There
was, apparently, only one householder at all events of that name in
the neighbourhood of London. He jotted down the address and set out
for Richmond.
The house was some
distance from the station, Mr Carlyle learned. He took a taxicab
and
drove, dismissing the vehicle at the gate. He prided himself on his
power of observation and the accuracy of the deductions which
resulted from it—a detail of his business. "It's nothing more
than using one's eyes and putting two and two together," he
would modestly declare, when he wished to be deprecatory rather
than
impressive, and by the time he had reached the front door of "The
Turrets" he had formed some opinion of the position and tastes
of the man who lived there.
A man-servant admitted Mr
Carlyle and took in his card—his private card with the bare request
for an interview that would not detain Mr Carrados for ten minutes.
Luck still favoured him; Mr Carrados was at home and would see him
at
once. The servant, the hall through which they passed, and the room
into which he was shown, all contributed something to the
deductions
which the quietly observant gentleman was half unconsciously
recording.
"Mr Carlyle,"
announced the servant.
The room was a library or
study. The only occupant, a man of about Carlyle's own age, had
been
using a typewriter up to the moment of his visitor's entrance. He
now
turned and stood up with an expression of formal courtesy.
"It's very good of
you to see me at this hour," apologized the caller.
The conventional
expression of Mr Carrados's face changed a little.
"Surely my man has
got your name wrong?" he exclaimed. "Isn't it Louis
Calling?"
The visitor stopped short
and his agreeable smile gave place to a sudden flash of anger or
annoyance.
"No, sir," he
replied stiffly. "My name is on the card which you have before
you."
"I beg your pardon,"
said Mr Carrados, with perfect good-humour. "I hadn't seen it.
But I used to know a Calling some years ago—at St Michael's."
"St Michael's!"
Mr Carlyle's features underwent another change, no less instant and
sweeping than before. "St Michael's! Wynn Carrados? Good
heavens! it isn't Max Wynn—old 'Winning' Wynn?"
"A little older and a
little fatter—yes," replied Carrados. "I
havechanged
my name, you see."
"Extraordinary thing
meeting like this," said his visitor, dropping into a chair and
staring hard at Mr Carrados. "I have changed more than my name.
How did you recognize me?"
"The voice,"
replied Carrados. "It took me back to that little smoke-dried
attic den of yours where we——"
"My God!"
exclaimed Carlyle bitterly, "don't remind me of what we were
going to do in those days." He looked round the well-furnished,
handsome room and recalled the other signs of wealth that he had
noticed. "At all events, you seem fairly comfortable, Wynn."
"I am alternately
envied and pitied," replied Carrados, with a placid tolerance of
circumstance that seemed characteristic of him. "Still, as you
say, I am fairly comfortable."
"Envied, I can
understand. But why are you pitied?"
"Because I am blind,"
was the tranquil reply.
"Blind!"
exclaimed Mr Carlyle, using his own eyes superlatively. "Do you
mean—literally blind?"
"Literally.... I was
riding along a bridle-path through a wood about a dozen years ago
with a friend. He was in front. At one point a twig sprang back—you
know how easily a thing like that happens. It just flicked my
eye—nothing to think twice about."
"And that blinded
you?"
"Yes, ultimately.
It's called amaurosis."
"I can scarcely
believe it. You seem so sure and self-reliant. Your eyes are full
of
expression—only a little quieter than they used to be. I believe
you were typing when I came.... Aren't you having me?"
"You miss the dog and
the stick?" smiled Carrados. "No; it's a fact."
"What an awful
infliction for you, Max. You were always such an impulsive,
reckless
sort of fellow—never quiet. You must miss such a fearful lot."
"Has anyone else
recognized you?" asked Carrados quietly.
"Ah, that was the
voice, you said," replied Carlyle.
"Yes; but other
people heard the voice as well. Only I had no blundering,
self-confident eyes to be hoodwinked."
"That's a rum way of
putting it," said Carlyle. "Are your ears never hoodwinked,
may I ask?"
"Not now. Nor my
fingers. Nor any of my other senses that have to look out for
themselves."
"Well, well,"
murmured Mr Carlyle, cut short in his sympathetic emotions. "I'm
glad you take it so well. Of course, if you find it an advantage to
be blind, old man——" He stopped and reddened. "I beg
your pardon," he concluded stiffly.
"Not an advantage
perhaps," replied the other thoughtfully. "Still it has
compensations that one might not think of. A new world to explore,
new experiences, new powers awakening; strange new perceptions;
life
in the fourth dimension. But why do you beg my pardon, Louis?"
"I am an
ex-solicitor, struck off in connexion with the falsifying of a
trust
account, Mr Carrados," replied Carlyle, rising.
"Sit down, Louis,"
said Carrados suavely. His face, even his incredibly living eyes,
beamed placid good-nature. "The chair on which you will sit, the
roof above you, all the comfortable surroundings to which you have
so
amiably alluded, are the direct result of falsifying a trust
account.
But do I call you 'Mr Carlyle' in consequence? Certainly not,
Louis."
"I did not falsify
the account," cried Carlyle hotly. He sat down, however, and
added more quietly: "But why do I tell you all this? I have
never spoken of it before."
"Blindness invites
confidence," replied Carrados. "We are out of the
running—human rivalry ceases to exist. Besides, why shouldn't you?
In my case the account
was falsified."
"Of course that's all
bunkum, Max," commented Carlyle. "Still, I appreciate your
motive."
"Practically
everything I possess was left to me by an American cousin, on the
condition that I took the name of Carrados. He made his fortune by
an
ingenious conspiracy of doctoring the crop reports and unloading
favourably in consequence. And I need hardly remind you that the
receiver is equally guilty with the thief."
"But twice as safe. I
know something of that, Max.... Have you any idea what my business
is?"
"You shall tell me,"
replied Carrados.
"I run a private
inquiry agency. When I lost my profession I had to do something for
a
living. This occurred. I dropped my name, changed my appearance and
opened an office. I knew the legal side down to the ground and I
got
a retired Scotland Yard man to organize the outside work."
"Excellent!"
cried Carrados. "Do you unearth many murders?"
"No," admitted
Mr Carlyle; "our business lies mostly on the conventional lines
among divorce and defalcation."
"That's a pity,"
remarked Carrados. "Do you know, Louis, I always had a secret
ambition to be a detective myself. I have even thought lately that
I
might still be able to do something at it if the chance came my
way.
That makes you smile?"
"Well, certainly, the
idea——"
"Yes, the idea of a
blind detective—the blind tracking the alert——"
"Of course, as you
say, certain faculties are no doubt quickened," Mr Carlyle
hastened to add considerately, "but, seriously, with the
exception of an artist, I don't suppose there is any man who is
more
utterly dependent on his eyes."
Whatever opinion Carrados
might have held privately, his genial exterior did not betray a
shadow of dissent. For a full minute he continued to smoke as
though
he derived an actual visual enjoyment from the blue sprays that
travelled and dispersed across the room. He had already placed
before
his visitor a box containing cigars of a brand which that gentleman
keenly appreciated but generally regarded as unattainable, and the
matter-of-fact ease and certainty with which the blind man had
brought the box and put it before him had sent a questioning
flicker
through Carlyle's mind.
"You used to be
rather fond of art yourself, Louis," he remarked presently.
"Give me your opinion of my latest purchase—the bronze lion on
the cabinet there." Then, as Carlyle's gaze went about the room,
he added quickly: "No, not that cabinet—the one on your left."
Carlyle shot a sharp
glance at his host as he got up, but Carrados's expression was
merely
benignly complacent. Then he strolled across to the figure.
"Very nice," he
admitted. "Late Flemish, isn't it?"
"No. It is a copy of
Vidal's 'Roaring lion.'"
"Vidal?"
"A French artist."
The voice became indescribably flat. "He, also, had the
misfortune to be blind, by the way."
"You old humbug,
Max!" shrieked Carlyle, "you've been thinking that out for
the last five minutes." Then the unfortunate man bit his lip and
turned his back towards his host.
"Do you remember how
we used to pile it up on that obtuse ass Sanders and then roast
him?"
asked Carrados, ignoring the half-smothered exclamation with which
the other man had recalled himself.
"Yes," replied
Carlyle quietly. "This is very good," he continued,
addressing himself to the bronze again. "How ever did he do it?"
"With his hands."
"Naturally. But, I
mean, how did he study his model?"
"Also with his hands.
He called it 'seeing near.'"
"Even with a
lion—handled it?"
"In such cases he
required the services of a keeper, who brought the animal to bay
while Vidal exercised his own particular gifts.... You don't feel
inclined to put me on the track of a mystery, Louis?"
Unable to regard this
request as anything but one of old Max's unquenchable pleasantries,
Mr Carlyle was on the point of making a suitable reply when a
sudden
thought caused him to smile knowingly. Up to that point he had,
indeed, completely forgotten the object of his visit. Now that he
remembered the doubtful Dionysius and Mr Baxter's recommendation he
immediately assumed that some mistake had been made. Either Max was
not the Wynn Carrados he had been seeking or else the dealer had
been
misinformed; for although his host was wonderfully expert in the
face
of his misfortune, it was inconceivable that he could decide the
genuineness of a coin without seeing it. The opportunity seemed a
good one of getting even with Carrados by taking him at his word.
"Yes," he
accordingly replied, with crisp deliberation, as he recrossed the
room; "yes, I will, Max. Here is the clue to what seems to be a
rather remarkable fraud." He put the tetradrachm into his host's
hand. "What do you make of it?"
For a few seconds Carrados
handled the piece with the delicate manipulation of his finger-tips
while Carlyle looked on with a self-appreciative grin. Then with
equal gravity the blind man weighed the coin in the balance of his
hand. Finally he touched it with his tongue.
"Well?" demanded
the other.
"Of course I have not
much to go on, and if I was more fully in your confidence I might
come to another conclusion——"
"Yes, yes,"
interposed Carlyle, with amused encouragement.
"Then I should advise
you to arrest the parlourmaid, Nina Brun, communicate with the
police
authorities of Padua for particulars of the career of Helene
Brunesi,
and suggest to Lord Seastoke that he should return to London to see
what further depredations have been made in his cabinet."
Mr Carlyle's groping hand
sought and found a chair, on to which he dropped blankly. His eyes
were unable to detach themselves for a single moment from the very
ordinary spectacle of Mr Carrados's mildly benevolent face, while
the
sterilized ghost of his now forgotten amusement still lingered
about
his features.
"Good heavens!"
he managed to articulate, "how do you know?"
"Isn't that what you
wanted of me?" asked Carrados suavely.
"Don't humbug, Max,"
said Carlyle severely. "This is no joke." An undefined
mistrust of his own powers suddenly possessed him in the presence
of
this mystery. "How do you come to know of Nina Brun and Lord
Seastoke?"
"You are a detective,
Louis," replied Carrados. "How does one know these things?
By using one's eyes and putting two and two together."
Carlyle groaned and flung
out an arm petulantly.
"Is it all bunkum,
Max? Do you really see all the time—though that doesn't go very far
towards explaining it."
"Like Vidal, I see
very well—at close quarters," replied Carrados, lightly
running a forefinger along the inscription on the tetradrachm. "For
longer range I keep another pair of eyes. Would you like to test
them?"
Mr Carlyle's assent was
not very gracious; it was, in fact, faintly sulky. He was suffering
the annoyance of feeling distinctly unimpressive in his own
department; but he was also curious.
"The bell is just
behind you, if you don't mind," said his host. "Parkinson
will appear. You might take note of him while he is in."
The man who had admitted
Mr Carlyle proved to be Parkinson.
"This gentleman is Mr
Carlyle, Parkinson," explained Carrados the moment the man
entered. "You will remember him for the future?"
Parkinson's apologetic eye
swept the visitor from head to foot, but so lightly and swiftly
that
it conveyed to that gentleman the comparison of being very deftly
dusted.
"I will endeavour to
do so, sir," replied Parkinson, turning again to his master.
"I shall be at home
to Mr Carlyle whenever he calls. That is all."
"Very well, sir."
"Now, Louis,"
remarked Mr Carrados briskly, when the door had closed again, "you
have had a good opportunity of studying Parkinson. What is he
like?"
"In what way?"
"I mean as a matter
of description. I am a blind man—I haven't seen my servant for
twelve years—what idea can you give me of him? I asked you to
notice."
"I know you did, but
your Parkinson is the sort of man who has very little about him to
describe. He is the embodiment of the ordinary. His height is about
average——"
"Five feet nine,"
murmured Carrados. "Slightly above the mean."
"Scarcely noticeably
so. Clean-shaven. Medium brown hair. No particularly marked
features.
Dark eyes. Good teeth."
"False,"
interposed Carrados. "The teeth—not the statement."
"Possibly,"
admitted Mr Carlyle. "I am not a dental expert and I had no
opportunity of examining Mr Parkinson's mouth in detail. But what
is
the drift of all this?"
"His clothes?"
"Oh, just the
ordinary evening dress of a valet. There is not much room for
variety
in that."
"You noticed, in
fact, nothing special by which Parkinson could be identified?"
"Well, he wore an
unusually broad gold ring on the little finger of the left hand."
"But that is
removable. And yet Parkinson has an ineradicable mole—a small one,
I admit—on his chin. And you a human sleuth-hound. Oh, Louis!"
"At all events,"
retorted Carlyle, writhing a little under this good-humoured
satire,
although it was easy enough to see in it Carrados's affectionate
intention—"at all events, I dare say I can give as good a
description of Parkinson as he can give of me."
"That is what we are
going to test. Ring the bell again."
"Seriously?"
"Quite. I am trying
my eyes against yours. If I can't give you fifty out of a hundred
I'll renounce my private detectorial ambition for ever."
"It isn't quite the
same," objected Carlyle, but he rang the bell.
"Come in and close
the door, Parkinson," said Carrados when the man appeared.
"Don't look at Mr Carlyle again—in fact, you had better stand
with your back towards him, he won't mind. Now describe to me his
appearance as you observed it."
Parkinson tendered his
respectful apologies to Mr Carlyle for the liberty he was compelled
to take, by the deferential quality of his voice.
"Mr Carlyle, sir,
wears patent leather boots of about size seven and very little
used.
There are five buttons, but on the left boot one button—the third
up—is missing, leaving loose threads and not the more usual metal
fastener. Mr Carlyle's trousers, sir, are of a dark material, a
dark
grey line of about a quarter of an inch width on a darker ground.
The
bottoms are turned permanently up and are, just now, a little
muddy,
if I may say so."
"Very muddy,"
interposed Mr Carlyle generously. "It is a wet night,
Parkinson."
"Yes, sir; very
unpleasant weather. If you will allow me, sir, I will brush you in
the hall. The mud is dry now, I notice. Then, sir," continued
Parkinson, reverting to the business in hand, "there are dark
green cashmere hose. A curb-pattern key-chain passes into the
left-hand trouser pocket."
From the visitor's nether
garments the photographic-eyed Parkinson proceeded to higher
ground,
and with increasing wonder Mr Carlyle listened to the faithful
catalogue of his possessions. His fetter-and-link albert of gold
and
platinum was minutely described. His spotted blue ascot, with its
gentlemanly pearl scarfpin, was set forth, and the fact that the
buttonhole in the left lapel of his morning coat showed signs of
use
was duly noted. What Parkinson saw he recorded but he made no
deductions. A handkerchief carried in the cuff of the right sleeve
was simply that to him and not an indication that Mr Carlyle was,
indeed, left-handed.
But a more delicate part
of Parkinson's undertaking remained. He approached it with a double
cough.
"As regards Mr
Carlyle's personal appearance; sir——"
"No, enough!"
cried the gentleman concerned hastily. "I am more than
satisfied. You are a keen observer, Parkinson."
"I have trained
myself to suit my master's requirements, sir," replied the man.
He looked towards Mr Carrados, received a nod and withdrew.
Mr Carlyle was the first
to speak.
"That man of yours
would be worth five pounds a week to me, Max," he remarked
thoughtfully. "But, of course——"
"I don't think that
he would take it," replied Carrados, in a voice of equally
detached speculation. "He suits me very well. But you have the
chance of using his services—indirectly."
"You still mean
that—seriously?"
"I notice in you a
chronic disinclination to take me seriously, Louis. It is really—to
an Englishman—almost painful. Is there something inherently comic
about me or the atmosphere of The Turrets?"
"No, my friend,"
replied Mr Carlyle, "but there is something essentially
prosperous. That is what points to the improbable. Now what is it?"
"It might be merely a
whim, but it is more than that," replied Carrados. "It is,
well, partly vanity, partly
ennui, partly"—certainly
there was something more nearly tragic in his voice than comic
now—"partly hope."
Mr Carlyle was too tactful
to pursue the subject.
"Those are three
tolerable motives," he acquiesced. "I'll do anything you
want, Max, on one condition."
"Agreed. And it is?"
"That you tell me how
you knew so much of this affair." He tapped the silver coin
which lay on the table near them. "I am not easily
flabbergasted," he added.
"You won't believe
that there is nothing to explain—that it was purely second-sight?"
"No," replied
Carlyle tersely; "I won't."
"You are quite right.
And yet the thing is very simple."
"They always are—when
you know," soliloquized the other. "That's what makes them
so confoundedly difficult when you don't."
"Here is this one
then. In Padua, which seems to be regaining its old reputation as
the
birthplace of spurious antiques, by the way, there lives an
ingenious
craftsman named Pietro Stelli. This simple soul, who possesses a
talent not inferior to that of Cavino at his best, has for many
years
turned his hand to the not unprofitable occupation of forging rare
Greek and Roman coins. As a collector and student of certain Greek
colonials and a specialist in forgeries I have been familiar with
Stelli's workmanship for years. Latterly he seems to have come
under
the influence of an international crook called—at the
moment—Dompierre, who soon saw a way of utilizing Stelli's genius
on a royal scale. Helene Brunesi, who in private life is—and really
is, I believe—Madame Dompierre, readily lent her services to the
enterprise."
"Quite so,"
nodded Mr Carlyle, as his host paused.
"You see the whole
sequence, of course?"
"Not exactly—not in
detail," confessed Mr Carlyle.
"Dompierre's idea was
to gain access to some of the most celebrated cabinets of Europe
and
substitute Stelli's fabrications for the genuine coins. The
princely
collection of rarities that he would thus amass might be difficult
to
dispose of safely but I have no doubt that he had matured his
plans.
Helene, in the person of Nina Bran, an Anglicised French
parlourmaid—a part which she fills to perfection—was to obtain
wax impressions of the most valuable pieces and to make the
exchange
when the counterfeits reached her. In this way it was obviously
hoped
that the fraud would not come to light until long after the real
coins had been sold, and I gather that she has already done her
work
successfully in several houses. Then, impressed by her excellent
references and capable manner, my housekeeper engaged her, and for
a
few weeks she went about her duties here. It was fatal to this
detail
of the scheme, however, that I have the misfortune to be blind. I
am
told that Helene has so innocently angelic a face as to disarm
suspicion, but I was incapable of being impressed and that good
material was thrown away. But one morning my material
fingers—which,
of course, knew nothing of Helene's angelic face—discovered an
unfamiliar touch about the surface of my favourite Euclideas, and,
although there was doubtless nothing to be seen, my critical sense
of
smell reported that wax had been recently pressed against it. I
began
to make discreet inquiries and in the meantime my cabinets went to
the local bank for safety. Helene countered by receiving a telegram
from Angiers, calling her to the death-bed of her aged mother. The
aged mother succumbed; duty compelled Helene to remain at the side
of
her stricken patriarchal father, and doubtless The Turrets was
written off the syndicate's operations as a bad debt."
"Very interesting,"
admitted Mr Carlyle; "but at the risk of seeming obtuse"—his
manner had become delicately chastened—"I must say that I fail
to trace the inevitable connexion between Nina Brun and this
particular forgery—assuming that it is a forgery."
"Set your mind at
rest about that, Louis," replied Carrados. "It is a
forgery, and it is a forgery that none but Pietro Stelli could have
achieved. That is the essential connexion. Of course, there are
accessories. A private detective coming urgently to see me with a
notable tetradrachm in his pocket, which he announces to be the
clue
to a remarkable fraud—well, really, Louis, one scarcely needs to be
blind to see through that."
"And Lord Seastoke? I
suppose you happened to discover that Nina Brun had gone there?"
"No, I cannot claim
to have discovered that, or I should certainly have warned him at
once when I found out—only recently—about the gang. As a matter
of fact, the last information I had of Lord Seastoke was a line in
yesterday's
Morning Post to the effect that he was
still at Cairo. But many of these pieces——" He brushed his
finger almost lovingly across the vivid chariot race that
embellished
the reverse of the coin, and broke off to remark: "You really
ought to take up the subject, Louis. You have no idea how useful it
might prove to you some day."
"I really think I
must," replied Carlyle grimly. "Two hundred and fifty
pounds the original of this cost, I believe."
"Cheap, too; it would
make five hundred pounds in New York to-day. As I was saying, many
are literally unique. This gem by Kimon is—here is his signature,
you see; Peter is particularly good at lettering—and as I handled
the genuine tetradrachm about two years ago, when Lord Seastoke
exhibited it at a meeting of our society in Albemarle Street, there
is nothing at all wonderful in my being able to fix the locale of
your mystery. Indeed, I feel that I ought to apologize for it all
being so simple."
"I think,"
remarked Mr Carlyle, critically examining the loose threads on his
left boot, "that the apology on that head would be more
appropriate from me."
II. — THE KNIGHT'S CROSS SIGNAL PROBLEM
"Louis,"
exclaimed Mr Carrados, with the air of genial gaiety that Carlyle
had
found so incongruous to his conception of a blind man, "you have
a mystery somewhere about you! I know it by your step."
Nearly a month had passed
since the incident of the false Dionysius had led to the two men
meeting. It was now December. Whatever Mr Carlyle's step might
indicate to the inner eye it betokened to the casual observer the
manner of a crisp, alert, self-possessed man of business. Carlyle,
in
truth, betrayed nothing of the pessimism and despondency that had
marked him on the earlier occasion.
"You have only
yourself to thank that it is a very poor one," he retorted. "If
you hadn't held me to a hasty promise——"
"To give me an option
on the next case that baffled you, no matter what it was——"
"Just so. The
consequence is that you get a very unsatisfactory affair that has
no
special interest to an amateur and is only baffling because it
is—well——"
"Well, baffling?"
"Exactly, Max. Your
would-be jest has discovered the proverbial truth. I need hardly
tell
you that it is only the insoluble that is finally baffling and this
is very probably insoluble. You remember the awful smash on the
Central and Suburban at Knight's Cross Station a few weeks ago?"
"Yes," replied
Carrados, with interest. "I read the whole ghastly details at
the time."
"You read?"
exclaimed his friend suspiciously.
"I still use the
familiar phrases," explained Carrados, with a smile. "As a
matter of fact, my secretary reads to me. I mark what I want to
hear
and when he comes at ten o'clock we clear off the morning papers in
no time."
"And how do you know
what to mark?" demanded Mr Carlyle cunningly.
Carrados's right hand,
lying idly on the table, moved to a newspaper near. He ran his
finger
along a column heading, his eyes still turned towards his visitor.
"'The Money Market.
Continued from page 2. British Railways,'" he announced.
"Extraordinary,"
murmured Carlyle.
"Not very," said
Carrados. "If someone dipped a stick in treacle and wrote 'Rats'
across a marble slab you would probably be able to distinguish what
was there, blindfold."
"Probably,"
admitted Mr Carlyle. "At all events we will not test the
experiment."
"The difference to
you of treacle on a marble background is scarcely greater than that
of printers' ink on newspaper to me. But anything smaller than pica
I
do not read with comfort, and below long primer I cannot read at
all.
Hence the secretary. Now the accident, Louis."
"The accident: well,
you remember all about that. An ordinary Central and Suburban
passenger train, non-stop at Knight's Cross, ran past the signal
and
crashed into a crowded electric train that was just beginning to
move
out. It was like sending a garden roller down a row of handlights.
Two carriages of the electric train were flattened out of
existence;
the next two were broken up. For the first time on an English
railway
there was a good stand-up smash between a heavy steam-engine and a
train of light cars, and it was 'bad for the coo.'"
"Twenty-seven killed,
forty something injured, eight died since," commented Carrados.
"That was bad for the
Co.," said Carlyle. "Well, the main fact was plain enough.
The heavy train was in the wrong. But was the engine-driver
responsible? He claimed, and he claimed vehemently from the first
and
he never varied one iota, that he had a 'clear' signal—that is to
say, the green light, it being dark. The signalman concerned was
equally dogged that he never pulled off the signal—that it was at
'danger' when the accident happened and that it had been for five
minutes before. Obviously, they could not both be right."
"Why, Louis?"
asked Mr Carrados smoothly.
"The signal must
either have been up or down—red or green."
"Did you ever notice
the signals on the Great Northern Railway, Louis?"
"Not particularly.
Why?"
"One winterly day,
about the year when you and I were concerned in being born, the
engine-driver of a Scotch express received the 'clear' from a
signal
near a little Huntingdon station called Abbots Ripton. He went on
and
crashed into a goods train and into the thick of the smash a down
express mowed its way. Thirteen killed and the usual tale of
injured.
He was positive that the signal gave him a 'clear'; the signalman
was
equally confident that he had never pulled it off the 'danger.'
Both
were right, and yet the signal was in working order. As I said, it
was a winterly day; it had been snowing hard and the snow froze and
accumulated on the upper edge of the signal arm until its weight
bore
it down. That is a fact that no fiction writer dare have invented,
but to this day every signal on the Great Northern pivots from the
centre of the arm instead of from the end, in memory of that
snowstorm."
"That came out at the
inquest, I presume?" said Mr Carlyle. "We have had the
Board of Trade inquiry and the inquest here and no explanation is
forthcoming. Everything was in perfect order. It rests between the
word of the signalman and the word of the engine-driver—not a jot
of direct evidence either way. Which is right?"
"That is what you are
going to find out, Louis?" suggested Carrados.
"It is what I am
being paid for finding out," admitted Mr Carlyle frankly. "But
so far we are just where the inquest left it, and, between
ourselves,
I candidly can't see an inch in front of my face in the matter."
"Nor can I,"
said the blind man, with a rather wry smile. "Never mind. The
engine-driver is your client, of course?"
"Yes," admitted
Carlyle. "But how the deuce did you know?"
"Let us say that your
sympathies are enlisted on his behalf. The jury were inclined to
exonerate the signalman, weren't they? What has the company done
with
your man?"
"Both are suspended.
Hutchins, the driver, hears that he may probably be given charge of
a
lavatory at one of the stations. He is a decent, bluff,
short-spoken
old chap, with his heart in his work. Just now you'll find him at
his
worst—bitter and suspicious. The thought of swabbing down a
lavatory and taking pennies all day is poisoning him."
"Naturally. Well,
there we have honest Hutchins: taciturn, a little touchy perhaps,
grown grey in the service of the company, and manifesting quite a
bulldog-like devotion to his favourite 538."
"Why, that actually
was the number of his engine—how do you know it?" demanded
Carlyle sharply.
"It was mentioned two
or three times at the inquest, Louis," replied Carrados mildly.
"And you
remembered—with no reason to?"
"You can generally
trust a blind man's memory, especially if he has taken the trouble
to
develop it."
"Then you will
remember that Hutchins did not make a very good impression at the
time. He was surly and irritable under the ordeal. I want you to
see
the case from all sides."
"He called the
signalman—Mead—a 'lying young dog,' across the room, I believe.
Now, Mead, what is he like? You have seen him, of course?"
"Yes. He does not
impress me favourably. He is glib, ingratiating, and distinctly
'greasy.' He has a ready answer for everything almost before the
question is out of your mouth. He has thought of everything."
"And now you are
going to tell me something, Louis," said Carrados encouragingly.
Mr Carlyle laughed a
little to cover an involuntary movement of surprise.
"There is a
suggestive line that was not touched at the inquiries," he
admitted. "Hutchins has been a saving man all his life, and he
has received good wages. Among his class he is regarded as wealthy.
I
daresay that he has five hundred pounds in the bank. He is a
widower
with one daughter, a very nice-mannered girl of about twenty. Mead
is
a young man, and he and the girl are sweethearts—have been
informally engaged for some time. But old Hutchins would not hear
of
it; he seems to have taken a dislike to the signalman from the
first
and latterly he had forbidden him to come to his house or his
daughter to speak to him."
"Excellent, Louis,"
cried Carrados in great delight. "We shall clear your man in a
blaze of red and green lights yet and hang the glib, 'greasy'
signalman from his own signal-post."
"It is a significant
fact, seriously?"
"It is absolutely
convincing."
"It may have been a
slip, a mental lapse on Mead's part which he discovered the moment
it
was too late, and then, being too cowardly to admit his fault, and
having so much at stake, he took care to make detection impossible.
It may have been that, but my idea is rather that probably it was
neither quite pure accident nor pure design. I can imagine Mead
meanly pluming himself over the fact that the life of this man who
stands in his way, and whom he must cordially dislike, lies in his
power. I can imagine the idea becoming an obsession as he dwells on
it. A dozen times with his hand on the lever he lets his mind
explore
the possibilities of a moment's defection. Then one day he pulls
the
signal off in sheer bravado—and hastily puts it at danger again. He
may have done it once or he may have done it oftener before he was
caught in a fatal moment of irresolution. The chances are about
even
that the engine-driver would be killed. In any case he would be
disgraced, for it is easier on the face of it to believe that a man
might run past a danger signal in absentmindedness, without
noticing
it, than that a man should pull off a signal and replace it without
being conscious of his actions."
"The fireman was
killed. Does your theory involve the certainty of the fireman being
killed, Louis?"